


Diamond Dogs

by Left_Handed_Rick



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Emotional Support Morty, Interspecies Relationship(s), Long Distance Relationships, M/M, Military Rick, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Morty, Starry Citadel AU, Time Dysphoria, radio ex machina, time-dysphoria, time-sickness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22222096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Rick/pseuds/Left_Handed_Rick
Summary: Being assigned to a life starside was a death sentence in the long run.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith, Seal Team Rick/Dog Morty
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Interconnected Fics from The Starry Citadel AU, LHRs Collection of Monster Alien and Other Non-Human





	Diamond Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> ###  Author's Note/Introduction 
> 
> This started mostly as a character study for Rambo Rick (my favorite Seal Team Rick), and as an exploration of the Military operations in the Citadel, and Rick's internal worldview about war. I also wanted to do something with Dog Morty, because RAM fandom needs more furry, but I got stuck at figuring out exactly how this dynamic should play out. 
> 
> Decided to post what I wrote anyway! If anyone wants to collaborate on this one, or give me some ideas for it, give me a shout! I'd love to build out the Military part of the Starry AU more.  
> [ ✦ Fic Art Gallery ](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/diamond-dogs.html)  
> [ ✦ Fic Endnotes](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/diamond-dogs.html)  
> [ ✦ Follow Along Playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/album/72mfhbEsMtXR6s7v9UhKe3?si=65o1dSbXTleg44E-JYKA-g)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"This ain't Rock'n'Roll, This is Genocide."_

Ricks were never meant to be civilians. 

Still in his uniform, Seal Team Rick D-66 parted company with his seal team with the intent of finding a place to take off the helm of _team leader_ and drink alone. He had about 48:00 hours C-side, before shipping out to the stars on another mission: the nature of which, he wouldn't know until the transport hurdled himself and the small but specialized team under his command toward it. Like most of the military Ricks, he was encouraged to spend the slot of layover time like there was no tomorrow—which on C-side, technically, there never was. 

Moving between varying time-controlled systems fucked with his body, and as he paced through the streets of Labcoat Square looking for a place to get shitfaced, he felt his physical body trying to recalibrate itself. He counted himself lucky that a large percentage of his physical makeup was class C and above military-grade cybernetics, but some of his team members, who hadn't been augmented, wasn't as fortunate. From what he'd gathered, it was a grueling transition every time. He couldn't understand why some military Ricks made the decision to keep their organic bodies when the upper brass incentivized physical modification in every possible way. 

Regardless, being assigned to a life starside was a death sentence in the long run. D-66 thought the trade was worth it. He never liked the way lifers aimlessly fucked their way around the Citadel’s axis as a way to pass the time in a system that was no longer moving it.   
  


  
The sugary sounds of the Citadel Radio broadcasted simultaneously throughout the business fronts culminating in the large speakers in the district's pavilion. The orchestrated presentation was unsettling in a dystopian-society kind of a way, and D-66 internally groaned as he moved through the commercial atmosphere. 

The tourist district seemed to be flooded with a larger amount of labcoats than normal. Must have been that time of Earth-year where Ricks flocked to the Citadel to vacation with their Mortys. Lifers avoided this district like the plague, and for good reason: a labcoat was a sign of freedom, and the tourists were spending their freedom taking a vacation in a glass prison. 

Even moving through the tourist district, D-66 couldn’t help but feel impersonally disgusted at how domesticated his interdimensional counterparts had become. A Rick nodded his way, thanking him for keeping the federation in its place, and a Morty without an ounce of tact froze to stare at him from across the street before his Rick tugged him along.

He supposed most Ricks understood the ugly truth of their collective patriotism: one nation under God and their "God" was spelled with dollar signs. The military branch was one of the few domestic exports of the Citadel, and as the self-aware product of such a business, D-66 never felt particularly heroic or special for the things he or his special-operations team did. His pre-disposed assembly line just happened to be one attached to the marketable brand of Amer-Rickan. But regardless, a lot of Citadel Ricks and Mortys celebrated what the Seal Team Ricks had meant to them. At best, Rick and Morty patriotism was just another ideology to believe in.

At worst it was a radicalizing agent for the impressionable who had nothing left to believe in. A moment of frustrated anger flared in D-66's chest and he wrestled the familiar emotion of anger into an apathetic resting rick-face.

What the fuck did they know about living or dying? About "volunteering" one's life for some greater cause? How could they know shit about it? They'd probably lived so comfortably long they'd forgotten how to fear death. 

He took a deep breath, and took in the overpopulated number of hovercars and mostly human bodies that moved around him like motionless clockwork. The world spun around him in a disorienting blur, and D-66 forced his eyes shut in an attempt to ground himself. The time-dysphoria hit his senses, immediately disorienting him.

Various time sicknesses were common Ricks for stationed starside, and the Citadel was a guaranteed time-trigger. Despite the array of coping mechanisms D-66 had developed as part of his infantry-stress training, the first few waves of a TD episode never failed to knock D-66 off-kilter.

For Rick-infantry like himself, living starside eventually felt more normal than ever setting foot in the Citadel, and like the majority of military Ricks, D-66 preferred to remain on the outside of the fishbowl looking in. The military upper brass, however, required the occasional C-side layover, and D-66, soberly stumbling through the cityscape was the necessary collateral damage of operations. 

It didn't take a genius to understand why most of the military Ricks spent their layover closest to base, but D-66 was determined to walk it off and make it to his destination. Dizzy with swollen brain tissue and nauseous with a time-dilating sensation of gravity-constrained vertigo, he found his footing and continued onward. 

In the mirror-like glass of a nearby building, he stopped to take in his equally disorienting reflection: dead in one cybernetic eye and wearing a red bandana across his forhead. He had chosen the gimmick because like Rambo, he wanted out. Unlike him, he had long ago realized there was nowhere to run, not even within space-time.

The Idea of escape was just another integral function of the system itself; the act of participating in the illusion of only further entrenched them all in society's infrastructure. To civilians, D-66 and his small team symbolized an unstoppable force, but to himself, and other Ricks on his central-finite curve, his life mission felt like an inescapable curse.

"Service" was Rick's attempt to rebrand his monetary role in the business of war. D-66 hadn’t done shit in his “service” to the average Citadel civillian—currently thanking and celebrating him for their chains. He fought another wave of undirectable, impossible anger.

With another deep breath, focused on the recreational escapism was attainable and stepped into the Citadel Central Hyperloop Station. He glanced at the arrivals and departures, frowning at the idea of needing to board a unit to travel to Sanchez Slums. It would only make his time-sickness worse, but D-66 was on a mission to meet up with a pre-citadel friend. Crow had an endless tap of alcohol and was one of the few things worth setting foot on C-side for. He was willing to push through his physical discomfort to make his misery worth something. 

From the corner of his eye, D-66 caught sight of a Dog Morty, standing directly in the center of the hyperloop station. The boy nervously stood in place, shifting his weight between pawbs as his nose anxiously darted back and forth searching through the CC Station. D-66 had heard of Dog Mortys but he’d never _seen_ one in person. Dog Morty looked more lost than the average Morty (Ironic, if he was dog descended), and D-66 smirked at the recognizable characteristics that seemed to be interdimensional constants regarding his infinite grandsons.

Although D-66 was slightly reluctant to waste his layover time he cautiously approached the teen, stepping into the role of a good samaritan he felt nothing like. 

“Hey. Y-you lost or somethin’?” 

The pup's ears lifted in response to the low graveley voice, and his head pivoted toward D-66 before quickly tucking them back down with nervousness at the sight of him. Morty cautiously lifted his nose to the military Rick, scenting the surrounding air, before deciding to take a small step back. D-66 frowned at the Morty's non-verbal language, wondering if the boy could smell the mission he had just shipped back from. If that was the case, the kid was probably right to create distance between them at the first sniff.

“No," The Morty's answer was short and direct, "I-I’m waiting for my Rick.” 

It was a strange sensation of relief for D-66 to have his military authority recognized and feared as the dangerous presence it was rather than celebrated and praised. He made an effort to break the ice. 

“Heh, what are you? Some kind of fukin’ Ricksperiment gone wrong, or like sort of ol' yellow Morty from Dogworld Dimension?” 

"I. Uh..." Morty trailed off in a stammer, unsure of how to respond in a way that wouldn't challenge D-66's statement. 

While D-66 had traversed the interdimensional galaxy on a number of missions he'd always struggled to make everyday conversation. He listened to his own question as it fell from his lips. On second thought, it sounded potentially offensive. Crass (though he hadn’t intended it to). 

His team-members had an unspoken _no filter policy,_ and always said exactly what went through their minds (because unlike those living on the Citadel, they didn’t have the time to waste getting a conversation wet). Social niceties seemed pretty fuckin’ pointless to begin with, especially when it came to interacting with Ricks and Mortys.

“Urgh, no offense.” He offered. His jaw tightened with a sudden sense of shame, and he abruptly turned to walk away from the failed interaction and boarded the Hyperloop.

That dog-Morty wasn't looking for help and he hadn’t felt like a good samaritan anyways.

He felt his stomach turn with another episode of oncoming time sickness. He was going to get time-sick by the night's end regardless, but if he drank himself to vomit, he could at least enjoy a few hours of inebriation _and_ sober up before needing to ship to another adventure that he might not return from. He reached for a courtesy vomit bag.

From the center of the station, the dog Morty watched D-66 find his seat in the hyperloop and leave the station. 

He was never meant to interact with Civilians. 

***

How long had it been since he was last C-side? A few Earth-weeks, maybe?

His cybernetic eye filtered through a list of different time zones. What a fuckin paradox to exist outside of physical time, but remain within the artificial timekeeping systems of the Citadel. It was always such a fuckin _bitch_ to keep track of. D-66 preferred to absentmindedly follow the next order shouted at him because that was really all that there was and needed to be for him. He didn’t think about time unless he needed to. 

Today was one of the artificial days where he needed to. He looked at the orange glass key-card catching light in his hands. He was on a solo mission. Instructed to deliver the intel card to an unnamed Rick by 20:00 hours Citadel Standard Time, which gave him just enough time to deliver the package, and grab some 322 before jumping back on the transport ship.

He preferred to keep his schedule tight. Being in constant motion allowed him to not have to process the events from his last mission until he was ready to. He wasn’t ready to. 

He located the residence and silently handed off the glass card to a Rick wearing military-grade visual tech. The recipient's entire face was obfuscated visually and technically by a large red visor, and D-66's cybernetic eye glitched out from the moment he stepped foot on the private residence. The Rick looked like a civilian who wanted nothing to do with Citadel authorities on any level but wore a visible smirk at the surprise of opening the door to find the presence of D-66 in military uniform standing outside with an intel card. The entire operation D-66 had been given was dripping with shady shit he didn't like, but D-66 didn’t need to know about it and didn’t need to care – his only job was to deliver the card. Mission Complete. 

His cybernetic eye ran algorithms to calculate the time differences for him and revealed that he had just enough to stop by the Heights on the way back to the station.

***

  
The familiar sounds of the Citadel Radio greeted D-66 as he drunkenly stumbled through the Central Citadel Hyperloop Station, when a strange sense of Deja Vu washed over him. It wasn't a time-dysphoria episode this time, but an existential sense of familiarity. He reveled in the sensation of seeing someone recognizable, although, to be fair, outside of his unit, _familiar and recognizable_ for the seal team member was a near-perfect stranger. 

That Dog Morty stood in the center of the station just as he had been a few… days? Weeks? ago. D-66 remembered that the Morty had been lost. Was he still lost? The dog looked a little worse for wear since the last time he saw the anthropomorphic Morty. It looked like he'd lost a bit of weight. Motivated by the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, the military Rick approached Morty.

“H-Hey, you’re the. The fuckin' Dogworld Morty. Y-you sure you’re not lost? How long’s it been? It's been... It feels like forever, right? You look like shit.”

“I’m waiting for my Rick," The Morty's nose twitched in offense of the alcohol permeating Rick's body, and he pawed at his neck looking toward the ground, "He said he’d be right back.” 

D-66 Rolled his eyes at him. They both knew neither of them believed it. “Eh," He belched, "Yo-OUGH-’re way too fuckin loyal, _perrito!_ ”

The drunken soldier gave Morty a playful shove in the shoulder, and the pup's ears and entire head lowered and drooped in response to his words. D-66 wondered how many times Morty already had this conversation with a well-intending stranger. The CC Station was one of the highest traffic areas of the Citadel, after all.

“He..." The teen began, his voice had grown quiet with his own disbelief, "...He told me he’d come back.”

D-66 placed his hand on Morty's shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze. He drunkenly smiled and offered his no-filter, honest advice.

  
"He's not coming back, kid." 

**Author's Note:**

> ###  Starry AU Constellation Map (Interconnected characters & fics in this AU)
> 
> [ ✦ Fic Art Gallery ](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/diamond-dogs.html)   
>  [ ✦ Fic Endnotes](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/diamond-dogs.html)   
>  [ ✦ Starry AU Homepage ](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/index.html)   
>  [ ✦ Starry AU Citizens ](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/citadel-citizens.html)   
>  [ ✦ Starry AU Locations](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/citadel-locations.html)   
> 


End file.
